


Sugar, Feather, Bees

by Selden



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bad end, Curses, Implied Violence, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, trick - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-07 03:09:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16400204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selden/pseuds/Selden
Summary: Side effects may include: palpitations, anxiety. Loss of hair. Loss of the summoner's own immortal soul. Digestive issues. Delusions.





	Sugar, Feather, Bees

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gileonnen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gileonnen/gifts).



I wouldn't say I feel any different.  
  
Lighter, perhaps.  
  
It's supposed to weigh as much as a teaspoon of sugar (Arnrath, 04), a feather (Sendrak, 82), or a small flight of bees (Amara, 91).  
  
(Query: how do you weigh a flight of bees?)  
  
Yes, I wouldn't say I feel any particular change.  
  
Only, a little hungry, possibly. But then, as they say, summoning does take it out of one.

At least, Simmons says that. Said that.  
  
It is a pity about Simmons. He was such a pleasant presence to have around the lab, and his work on curse circles was irreproachable. Almost. He didn't see this coming, did he?  
  
And we were so careful, the two of us, before it happened. Although, looking back, I can't imagine why. What were we so afraid of?  
  
Why, we spent the entire afternoon setting up warding circles, sprinkling salt. Sweeping the floor with rosemary - which leaves its leaves just _everywhere_ , you know.  
  
Simmons insisted.  
  
Now that I think of it, I insisted too. Although it certainly didn't do anything to stop Simmons ending up in several pieces. I did tell him to leave the room, but he wouldn't hear of it, of course.  
  
Yes, I remember now - he kissed me on the mouth, and smiled, and touched my hand. He was like that quite often, Simmons was.  
  
And so was I.  
  
Perhaps it has done something - losing my soul, I mean.

Why, even now I feel that I could turn my head, and see him there, his face screwed up. Trying to touch my sleeve.

Poor Simmons. That is what I should say. I know it well.  
  
This morning I would have murdered anyone who did this thing. Who was responsible, as I am. I know. I know.  
  
I don't feel anything, though. Nothing at all.  
  
I don't.  
  
Simmons.  
  
I won't.  
  
I've lost my soul. It weighed as much as a whole flight of bees. I don't have anything to feel it with, this loss.  
  
Simmons. Poor Simmons.

See, I can say the words.  
  
I must be evil now, I think. I am quite free. I feel no pain. I can do - well. Whatever I may please.

 

I may perform the great curse circle work.

One could not do it, of course, if one still was capable of telling right from wrong.

Why - we were only trying to call up a shade, to ask poor lost professor Grinn just why it was that he burnt all his notes.

And look what happened. Look at Simmons now.

But! The Great Work.

There's nothing, now, to hold me back.

I have all the materials to hand.

Simmons. I'll call you back. I'll knit you up.

We'll work together, just the way - well. So.

Bear with me, Simmons.

I will bring you back.

And if I feel you, even now, touching my hand - if the sad heaps of gore upon the carpet seem to blur, and fade - well. There are some side-effects, besides the obvious, it seems.

I cannot trust my eyes.

I'm hollowed out inside, as if I was a hive, and now - I'm not.

(Query - why bees?)

I have no soul to hold me back.

And if I seem to see Simmons, still, alive and well, holding my arm and begging me -

Begging me with his eyes wide open -

And his open mouth -

I'll stop it up.

He's dead.

I saw to that.

I'll see to it that this shadow dies too. It mocks him, weeping in the corner of the room.

I must have peace and quiet, to bring him back.

I must have everything in order, for this, my own Great Work. Simmons would understand. He always was a tidy-minded man. Even his spectacles - they had their proper place.

I'll think of them, folded at rest, while I - while I make clear the room.

 

It is a pity, that the shadow bled so much.

Almost as if - but, no.

He died this morning, and I lost my soul. There's no dark force which clouds my sight. He's cold. Quite cold.

And though they say that the Great Work can serve to make a vessel for the Hidden Ones, to bring them out into the world of flesh, the light of day - I have no fear.

I have no soul, for such foul, hungry things to bend, and bleed, and turn to their own ends.

I have no soul, for them to blind, and fatten up, and eat.

I'm not the kind who's vulnerable to their tricks, their tales. Their clever glosses on the waking world.

You need some weakness, some small tender love, weighing you down, for that.

I am quite light, and free. Outside the window, roses bob, above the green grass of the quad.

We'll walk down there, again, today. Walk arm in arm.

We'll smoke our pipes, and walk beside the river, watching the light slant low under the willow trees.

We'll talk about this afternoon, and laugh.

 

I know I'll call back Simmons to his body, him alone.

My mind is clear. I have no soul to weigh me down.

My hands are wet.

But. So. I must not be distracted from my task.

What have I left to lose?

(Query - why Simmons? Why not me?)

 

 


End file.
